Summer Intern (8 page)

I
bounded out of bed and to my clothing rack outside my door. I might as well have had a soundtrack with “Joy to the World” playing along with my every move. It's funny how a new iron in the romance fire can fuel happiness. The crappy things seemed to go away—the stifling city heat didn't bother me, the subway seemed less stinkified, the crowded elevator ride up to work less claustrophobic.

When I got to my little veal-fattening pen (i.e., teeny tiny cubicle), I saw Daphne saunter by
avec
entourage, and even she didn't
bother me. She passed by my desk without saying hi, and I didn't even think
bitch
or
clam
, just
MattMattMattMattMatt
.

“Hey, Kira,” Alida said, rapidly approaching me. “Can I ask a favor? I'll tell CeCe I needed you—”

“Sure,” I said, brightening at the chance to work with her. I was getting a burning sensation in my ear from spending every morning booking hair and makeup teams to go to Genevieve's and CeCe's respective abodes to beautify them for their nightly dinner parties. All the top editors had me do this, and it got really tiresome to coordinate. Especially when they'd fight over who got to use this or that hair stylist. There was no way to win.

“Great. You're not going to believe this,” Alida said, leaning in to me. “Genevieve's new stepdaughter just got an assistant job down at
Tinsel Monthly
, and Genevieve said she can't dress. So now she's asked me, senior editor here, to pull five outfits a week to lend to the girl so she doesn't reflect poorly on Genevieve. I mean, God forbid she have an off-fashion day!” I could tell Alida thought Genevieve (a) sucked for wanting to make over this girl, and (b) double sucked for making a top fashion editor deal with the dumb task. I would have been furious, too. I felt good that Alida confided her obvious annoyance to me.

“You have great style and totally get it,” Alida said to my glowing, pride-filled face. “Can you take over this project for me?”

“Absolutely. Consider it done,” I assured her.

An hour later in the closet, I'd pulled a few options and was having fun accessorizing them when my phone buzzed. Could it
be Matt already? My whole bod froze as I nervously fumbled to open my phone.

“Hello?” I said in an almost-whisper.

“Kira, hey, are you in a library or something? It's Matt. I was hoping we could hang out tonight.”

W
hen I emerged from the subway on Eighty-sixth and Lexington, I realized that except for the quick jaunt to Daphne's friend's parents' apartment for the lame-o party, I had not spent any time uptown at all. And that was a mistake, because even though downtown was cool and edgy and midtown was fun and businessy, uptown was so clean and orderly. I walked along Park Avenue, taking in all the grand limestone buildings with their sleek awnings and uniformed doormen opening the heavy latticed doors for well-dressed residents, and sighed. It would
really be nice to have money and live here one day. All of the buildings had neat little flower boxes and gated trees so that dogs couldn't do their
bidniss
on them. And although the pulsing hip factor of downtown wasn't there, the stylish pedestrians were just as intriguing to me.

I supposed I was looking at everything with an extra spring in my step because I was on my way to meet Matt. He'd asked me on a real date to dinner at “his parents' favorite restaurant,” and when I ran the name and address by Richard, he'd raised his eyebrows and told me it was “
très
swanky” and I “must have landed a rich pup.” I felt like I was in the movies! Here I was in New York City, working at my dream job, and about to go out with “a rich pup” to a “swanky” restaurant. It was amazing!

When I found my way to Vico, a sleek-looking Italian restaurant with a clubby atmosphere, I scanned the room as I gave my name to the maître d'. Unfortunately, there was no sign of Matt yet. I didn't want to be the first one, and had purposely dragged my feet a little so I wouldn't come off like an eager beaver. But being prompt is not a crime.

The maître d' didn't find my name or Matt's, which was weird, but shrugged and said they had a table anyway, and led me to the back corner of the room. Right away a busboy rushed over and filled my water glass and another brought a bread basket. Then a waiter asked if I would like flat or sparkling water and seemed perplexed when I asked what was the difference between those and the one that the waiter had just poured for me. (He patiently
explained that I was drinking tap water, which I suppose was just fine by me.) It was strange to be at a grown-up place like this without my parents, but then again, I couldn't even picture my parents here. We go out to dinner frequently, but to places like Houston's or the Cheesecake Factory. Sure, we've gone to Montello's, a little Italian place near our house, which has great food, but it's not really fancy seeing as they still give you crayons to draw on the paper tablecloths.

I scanned the menu as I waited for Matt. I couldn't believe the prices and I hoped (read: prayed) that he didn't expect us to split dinner. Luckily I had cash on me, but if we ordered first and second courses, it would be about one hundred dollars, which was way too exorbitant for me. The minutes ticked by, and I nervously kept sipping my water. The busboy kept coming up and refilling it, and the waiter asked me twice if I was sure I wouldn't like something to drink. It felt weird to order without Matt, but I finally broke down and ordered a Coke and the waiter seemed a little disappointed. Just as I was starting to panic, Matt arrived.

He smiled at me and waved, and my heart did a little dance. As he walked up the steps toward me, I noticed that he was wearing if not the same, then nearly identical black pants and shirt that he wore when I met him. Maybe that look was his thing.

“Hey, I'm so sorry I'm late,” said Matt.

“No problem,” I assured him.

“The good news is that I'm late for a reason,” Matt said, grabbing a bread roll and breaking it in half. “I just nailed down my
spring internship, and I am happy to say you're looking at Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg's newest employee.”

“No way! That is so major!”

“I know. Of course, I'm not her employee, just her unpaid intern, and the lowliest at that, but this is one of my lifelong dreams.”

“I am so impressed,” I said. Wow, this guy was going places! How did I luck out?

“But anyway, sorry to talk about me straight off the bat. Tell me about you and your day,” he said, putting his hand on mine. I think I melted into the table.

“Um, well, it's not been as exciting as yours, that's for sure. I booked some foot models for our October pedicure article and had to rearrange some shelves, but that is so petty compared to what you're going to do.” For the first time I felt like fashion was insignificant and lame. I aspired to write articles on shoes, and Matt aspired to change our country. I was so not worthy.

“Don't be crazy,” scolded Matt. “Fashion and other leisure pursuits are just as vital as the judicial system. We need a little froth and fun in our life also, don't we?”

And with that, he had me. I looked at his eyes, which were sparkling in the dimly lit room, and knew then and there that Matt was special. He was not some fumbling lacrosse-stick-toting high school boy: He was a man.

As the dinner wore on (Matt told me to order “anything I want” and I did make a pig out of myself with the artichoke salad and homemade gnocchi), I learned that he grew up in New York but had gone to boarding school in Massachusetts at Holt Academy
(which even I had heard of, seeing as it produced four U.S. presidents and was one of the toniest schools in the country), before going to Georgetown. He was a black diamond skier and a big mountain biker but didn't seem to care that I was hopeless with sports. The weird thing was that we had so much in common! I told him my favorite movie was
Rear Window
and he was stunned and told me it was his also! We both loved van Gogh and loathed modern architecture, and when I ordered tiramisu for dessert, his jaw dropped and he told me that it was his favorite dessert in the world. I wanted to get down on my knees and thank the stars for sending us both to Melt the same night.

I had thought I was so into James, but the more I got to know Matt, the more he seemed like my kind of guy. James was amazing, but he was obviously uncomfortable with the fact that both his dad and stepfather were wealthy and extremely successful. On the flip side, Matt casually told me that he had been really fortunate to grow up with extreme wealth, and rather than be all spoiled bratty about it, he planned to use his good fortune and education to change the policy of the U.S. government toward welfare recipients. How cool was that?

“I'm so glad I met you, Kira,” said Matt after we finished the last dollop of mascarpone cream from our dessert.

I think I turned bright red. “I am, too.”

“Can I get you anything else?” asked the waiter, approaching our table.

“We're all set,” said Matt.

“Very well then,” said the waiter, placing a leather-bound case
with the bill on the edge of the table.

Matt glanced up at the waiter. “Oh, I'm charging it to my dad. Cal Rubin.”

“You're Mr. Rubin's son?” asked the waiter.

“Yeah, Dad said just charge it to his house account. And add twenty-five percent for gratuity.”

The waiter looked pleased. “Thank you so much, sir.”

“No problem,” said Matt, returning his gaze to me. “Shall we go on a walk?”

“Sure,” I said.

Matt slid back my chair and we exited onto Madison Avenue.

“Let's take Fifth, much more scenic,” said Matt, steering me down Ninety-third Street.

“I thought your last name was Hoffer,” I said, confused.

Matt sunk his hands into his pockets. “It is. Cal Rubin is my stepdad, but he's like a dad to me.”

“Oh,” I said. It was weird that both James's and Matt's parents were divorced. All of my friends' parents at home were still married. I guess that wasn't the norm in Manhattan.

We turned onto Fifth Avenue and Matt pointed out the sights, my own personal tour guide. We passed the Jewish Museum, the Convent of the Sacred Heart, and then the Cooper-Hewitt Museum, which used to be Andrew Carnegie's mansion. All of the meticulously restored old buildings were gorgeous. It was such a nice night, with a warm breeze, to be walking around, and even though it was about nine o'clock, it still wasn't dark. People were spilling out of the park—joggers, bikers, and other couples like
us. It was all so romantic.

When we got to about Eighty-fourth Street, Matt stopped in front of an ornate limestone building. The immaculately clad doormen stood at their posts outside as if royalty lived inside the gilded doors.

“Is something wrong?” I asked, noticing his fallen face.

“Yeah, sorry,” he said, his voice tight.

“What?” I asked, concerned.

“It's just…this is my dad's building, and um, I don't get along with my stepmother,” he lamented, looking up at the giant windows of the enormous apartments above. “When I pass it, it conjures up all these bad memories, 'cause basically I never see my dad because of my stepmonster and their new kids.”

“Oh my God! That's horrible. I'm so sorry,” I said, putting a hand on his arm to try to comfort him.

Matt suddenly shrugged, then smiled at me, taking my hand. “Kira, you're a really sweet girl. I'm so glad I met you.”

He leaned down and delicately kissed my hand, which made me shiver, feeling like some cherished Victorian woman in a costume drama. He looked up and saw my smile, then swiftly pulled me into him and kissed me passionately. I wanted to melt—and not because of the warm summer night.

Before heading back uptown, Matt walked me all the way down to my apartment, which was like five miles, stopping to kiss me almost every block. I had never been happier to see so many red lights.

W
hat came next was an Academy Awards–style montage of burgeoning romance, complete with Central Park smooches, sunsets by Chelsea Piers, and hand-holding down little winding streets. Matt would pick me up from
Skirt
, where I was still busting my hump working late, but his cute perch in the lobby made it all worth it. Within ten days, I felt like he was my full-out boyfriend! He started spending the night in our apartment every night, and while I hadn't given up the V-card, I knew he was the one I'd sleep with first. Definitely by summer's end.

During my CeCe servitude, my only bright moments were times plopped in Richard's office or when James and I would have the occasional chat in the hall. He was always so sweet, but not like Matt, who was so demonstratively attentive and, unlike James, clearly into me. Meanwhile, in my cinematic whirlwind, I oddly found that I didn't quite have everyone's approval on the new amore. Gabe, naturally, was as over the moon and was living vicariously through every kiss or inhalation of the fragrant flowers Matt brought me almost every day. He'd gush about how hot Matt was, how charming, how perfect. Teagan, however, was far less effusive.

“Are you, like, not into Matt?” I boldly asked one morning after Gabe gushed and she sat silent.

A shrug was her response. “He's okay, I guess.”

Huh? Just
okay
? He was a prince! A chivalrous gent of yesteryear!

“Why aren't you into him?” I asked casually, trying to tone down my defensiveness.

“I don't know.” She shrugged. “I mean, he's perfect. On paper,” she said, cautiously. “But something about him seems a shade…” her voice trailed off.

“A shade what?” I probed.

“A shade shady.”

Matt?
Jealous, much? “I don't see it,” I replied flippantly, and grabbed my bag to leave for work.

As I waited for them in the lobby, I just knew Teagan and Gabe
were still in the kitchen talking about me, but I didn't really care. Sometimes I thought Teagan had to ruin everyone else's happiness. I mean, she almost seemed to gloat that she was right about Daphne getting the internship, and now she was probably just so envious that Matt went for me that she'd search for any excuse to hate him.

“Kira, no offense, okay?” said Teagan when she and Gabe emerged downstairs.

“Whatever, Teagan,” I said, not looking at her. I pushed open the front door.

“Snippy!” Teagan muttered behind me.

I didn't even humor her with a response and refused to talk to her the entire subway ride. She didn't exactly try to talk to me, either. Gabe nervously maintained a monologue about celebrity gossip and other vapid topics the entire way to break the ice.

When we got to
Skirt,
the staff was gathering in the conference room for their weekly meeting. Alida had requested that the interns come to the first five minutes for some important announcement, and then we were to make ourselves scarce.

I sat down in the back corner, and James quickly slid into the seat next to me.

Although I was in the throes of my affair with Matt, I had to admit that I still kind of felt something for James. It had been sweet of him to defend me to Daphne that day—more than sweet. Sexy. Hot. Confident. But now that I was with Matt, I really wanted to move away from viewing him as a potential love
interest, which he obviously was not, and try to view him as just a friendly colleague.

“Hey, Kira!” he whispered as Alida walked up to the head of the table. “Would you want to come with me to this Hockney lecture at the Whitney tonight? I have an extra ticket—”

I started to flush with excitement until I remembered Matt.

“Oh, thanks, James,” I responded. “I can't. I have—I'm busy, actually. But thanks, anyway. I love Hockney.” It sounded like a cool event, but Matt was going to take me out to Klimt, a new Austrian restaurant in Tribeca.

“Oh. Okay. Another time, then,” he said.

“Okay, people, simmer,” ordered Alida. “So, as some of you know, Genevieve, aside from being editor in chief, also works tirelessly for the Fashion and Design Institute at the Manhattan Museum of Art, and their annual ball—which is
the
party of the year—is on Friday. Mr. Hughes has generously taken an extra table this year and so we are inviting the interns to attend.”

“Provided that you all work through the cocktail hour checking people in,” added Genevieve. She was a woman of few words, but whatever she tersely said had a strong effect.

Even though we had to work, there were gasps of delight from all of us. This event was profiled not only in every magazine—Hughes-owned or not—but also on television channels and newspapers around the world. It was attended by Hollywood stars, top fashion designers, and other luminaries who wanted to see and be seen.

“In addition,” Alida added, “you are each allowed to bring one guest.” Squeals of delight. I hoped Matt would be free.

The rest of the day was nonstop craziness as I finished my travails for CeCe, helped Richard with his files, and popped by Alida's office to see if she needed anything. Her intern had left already (at the stroke of five, natch), so she took me up on my offer to be of assistance. I knew Matt wasn't picking me up at home until eight o'clock, so I had plenty of time.

“So Kira,” Alida asked as I sorted new threads, Polaroiding them and placing them in fall shoot files while she answered e-mails, “tell me, do you see yourself working in magazines?”

“Oh yes,” I gushed. “I love it here. I mean, granted, I'm total Xerox girl, but I feel like I am soaking up so much.”

“And what if you were ever an editor…” she looked at me curiously. “What would you do? What would you want to add?”

“Me?
” I was surprised she'd even care what a lowly worker bee like moi would ever think. As much as I thought Alida and I connected, I still felt like a mannequin with hands for snapping Polaroids, not a thinking human.

“Well, I'd do a lot,” I started cautiously as she looked at me. “I would really sharpen the tone of the writing, give it that voice—it used to be snarkier, you know, kind of witty, tight, funny. Um…I'd overhaul some of the graphics, make them bolder, darker, edgier. Maybe experiment with more vintage looks like Warholian silkscreen images, chunky lettering, collages, things that lend energy. You know, that make every page pop. I like to
turn the page and have everything be eye-catching and bold,” I finished, thinking maybe I'd ranted too much. I was letting my imaginary corner office eclipse reality.

“Interesting,” she said with a smile. “Good to know.”

“I'm really excited for the big FDI event,” I said, revved up. “I'm bringing this new guy I met recently.”

“Oh
really
?” Alida asked with Richard-style taunting. “Can't wait to meet him!”

“I'm actually meeting him for dinner tonight—” I said, checking out the clock. It was still only seven.

“Go, go, go!” Alida said. “A gal's gotta primp. I'll take over and see you tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. I didn't want to leave her with more work.

“Totally,” she said sternly. “Have a blast.”

At the elevator, I found James waiting as well. “Hi, what time's your lecture?” I asked.

“In about twenty minutes. I'm just going to hop on the bus. Hopefully there will be one.”

“I'm sad to miss it,” I said as we boarded the surprisingly empty elevator. James got on and pressed the button, brushing against me ever so slightly.

He looked at me carefully. “What, you got a hot date?”

I couldn't decipher his tone. It was even, but not without emotion.

“Actually, yes,” I said, turning a little red despite myself.

James's eyebrows shot up and his mouth tightened. “Really?”

“Yup,” I said weakly. It was weird to talk to James about this. I felt…like I was cheating on him? No, that was dumb. I was sort of embarrassed. I didn't know why. I liked Matt, and I was into him, but for some odd reason I felt like I was betraying James a bit. Which was insane! We had only had a relationship in my mind.

“I'm jealous,” said James.

“What?” I sputtered. “You are?”

James looked straight into my eyes as I felt my knees grow weak. It was definitely a moment, and I thought he would say something, but then the elevator stopped and a woman got on, ruining everything. He watched the woman furiously press the lobby button three times, and then he turned back to me with a smile.

“Of course,” he said, now playful. “I want to make sure my friends are going out with nice guys. You'll have to bring him around so I can grill him.”

“Oh, okay,” I said.

The moment was broken. When we parted ways, I felt a weird dizzy strangeness, wondering if that really happened or if I was just making it up. But I put it out of my mind as I raced home to primp.

As soon as I got to the apartment, I dove into the shower. Shoot. Fifteen minutes to dry my hair, pick out a killer outfit, and put on makeup. After a racing whirlwind to get ready, I'd pulled it off. It was 8:05. Then 8:15. Then 8:30. Where was Matt? Finally,
at 9:15, Teagan and Gabe came home from shooting pool at a hall in the East Village.

“Whatcha doin' here, girl?” Gabe asked, looking at my gussied-up self, all dressed with no place to go.

“Matt didn't come or call,” I lamented. “I'm really bummed.”

“Kira,” began Teagan.

“You know what, Teagan? Your thoughts about Matt are really not helpful,” I said. Why did she have it out for Matt? No need for lemon juice in my emotional paper cut.

“Okay, sorry, I won't give you my two cents,” said Teagan, heading off to her room.

“Thanks,” I said. I didn't need her two cents if they made me feel like one cent.

“Don't worry, honey, he must've got laid up. A mellow night in will do you some good,” said Gabe, hugging me.

By eleven, I was in pj's, face washed, still bewildered, when my cell rang. It was Matt, apologizing profusely. He'd bumped into an old friend from Holt Academy and then he tried to call me but his phone battery died, and he was incredibly sorry but wanted to make it up to me. After being so excited and then so let down, I was at least happy to know he was (a) alive and (b) still into me, so I brushed off my annoyance and asked him to come to the FDI event with me.

“But you have to show up on time to the event, Matt,” I said. “It's part of my job.”

“Don't worry, Kira, I'll be there,” he promised. “Sleep tight.”